John Singleton, “Inside the turf dream,”
The Bulletin, July 20, 1982, pp. 44-48.

I can’t see why the editor wanted this article in the first place. Surely some things are self-evident. Evidently not.

I will try to make it very simple.

What is a man?

A man is a boy who is just about dead, that’s what a man is. A boy with the dreams still alive and well, but trapped in a body that is wrinkling and dropping off. Like the skin. Look at the skin. It is almost gone.

What else but the skin will keep the blood in?

Only the dreams remain.

But it is too late, too long, too sad. If man lived only 20 years it would not be so. But it is so. For our first 10 years we are alive and contributing members of God’s family.

And then for three score years and more we look back until we can see no longer.

Adulthood: it is all a cruel hoax.

A sadistic play in which we have but walk-on parts. Can you really imagine a seven-year-old Kerry Packer wanting to grow up so he can stick sealed sections in magazines dealing with the intricacies of breast cancer?

You’re kidding.

He would have dreamed of a century before lunch. Or five wickets in an innings. Or both.

What Charles Lloyd-Jones dreamed of as a child, it certainly wasn’t ladies’ fashions.

And now I ask you: Have you ever met Jack Ingham?

Can you imagine him being happy spending day after day, year after year, being happy to feed his stupid chooks just so the Colonel can spend all his life feeding stupid us? (And imagine what a crook picture The Godfather would have been if that slow-learning producer had woken up with a chook’s head on the end of his bed instead of a horse’s? I mean, the whole mafia would have been horse’s hoofs if it hadn’t been for that horse’s head.)

Next. Does Robert Sangster look witless enough to spend hours making up his own lottery numbers?

Or picking out soccer teams he’s never heard of to draw with other teams he’s never heard of either?

If only Leilani hadn’t broken down.

If only Andrew Peacock had as many horses as Robert Sangster. Would it all have made any difference to the Sangster fan? The questions roll on interminably.

Does Bob Ansett really want to drive your dollar further than his favourite North Melbourne player’s punt?

Does Jim Fleming care whether you shop at Jewel instead of Franklins?

Do you ever get a mental picture of Ian Rice, resplendent in his Melbourne Lord Mayoral gowns, serving Kentucky Fried in his Toorak mansion?

For that matter, do you see Bob Lapoint offering Geoffrey Wild pepperoni pizza as they discuss a big deal over lunch?

Can you see Mike Willesee preferring to walk rather than have anything except an Esso Tiger in his tank?

Can you see Larry Pickering preferring to write his name at the bottom of a cartoon instead of on a 25/1 certainty in the next?

And if Lawsie is so red-hot fair-dinkum about the effectiveness of Mortein how come those bugs are still itching his nose?

Sir Peter Abeles isn’t really running a transport company. Those TNT trucks are the biggest floating crap game in the world.

And if you’ve ever flown with Lang Hancock you will know that he is the Mad Max of the skies. Why else would he finance the Mad Max pictures? How else could he have found the iron to make the money to finance the flick in the first place, if it comes to that?

And don’t blame all of them or even me for our childish enthusiasms, whims and fantasies. It isn’t our fault that we have grown old.

We all wanted to stay young with our youthful dreams. Some among us wanted to be, and still want to be, champion footballers.

Cricketers.

Sailors.

Boxers.

Racing drivers.

Meccano builders.

Monopoly players.

(Some even today still haven’t stopped just playing with themselves. But they are in parliament and do not count.)

But deep down, in every boy, in every man, there is a little bit of cowboy.

In all of us.

A little bit of the simple values and dreams that every cowboy stands for.

But how can we be cowboys in 1982?

How can Rupert Murdoch and Robert Holmes à Court meet at high noon to fight a duel to the death over a bit of paper with ink on it? I mean, they don’t even sound like cowboys.

So what do we all do?

The next best thing.

Like me. I work all week, all my life, doing things I mostly dislike and even often hate. For what?

To buy horses, that’s what.

For someone else to break in, for someone else to train, for someone else to ride and for someone else to beat.

For what?

To work harder. To buy a better horse.

When we were kids we all took the bottles back to buy a Dinky toy.

Now that we are grown-ups we all take the bottles back to buy a horse.

Everything in life has a meaning.

And then one day you realise the futility of it all. That you will always have to work.

You will never be able to quit and be a real, fair-dinkum cowboy at all.

Unless the next horse you buy is a champion.

Which you know it will be.
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Appendix for Economics.org.au readers
The 2000 Golden Slipper at Rosehill featuring Belle du Jour

John Singleton and Gerry Harvey on how to pick and buy a winning horse: